Smile

by Jenny Palmer 

decaf cappuccino

There was nothing unusual about the day. I’d gone into town to do some shopping, parked my car in the supermarket car park and, after I’d got all the items I needed, went for a saunter around the town. This inevitably led me to the Oxfam shop. I prefer it to other charity shops because they put their books in alphabetical order and it’s easier to find something you want. And, anyway they usually stock a better class of books. I found a couple of books I liked the look of. One of them I hadn’t read and another one I wasn’t so sure about. This has been happening more and more recently. I’ll find something that looks enticing, buy it and take it home, only to find that I’ve already read it.

After Oxfam I went to have a browse around M&Co’s. It was full of summer clothes. I didn’t buy anything as it looked as if we weren’t going to have a summer this year. I still had an hour to kill before my parking ran out and I didn’t want to go home straight away. So, I headed off to Café Nero for a decaf cappuccino, my favourite drink when I’m out. I like the anonymity of the place. Nobody bats an eyelid when you go in there on your own, unlike some places I could mention. And you can stay as long as you like. I’ve never got out of the habit of hanging around in cafes, which I put it down to the fact that I lived in London for such a long time. 

In summer they usually have the door open but being so cold this year it was closed. I tried to pull the door open, but there was someone pushing from the inside.  There was some confusion while we worked out who was going to give way. In the end the man held the door open for me and let me in. He had a smile on his face, which struck me as slightly strange at the time. What was so funny?  But I smiled back and went to the counter to order my coffee. I was the only one in the queue. It was teatime. The place was virtually empty, apart from a few stragglers. 

‘That man has just paid for your drink,’ the girl behind the counter announced. ‘He wanted to do someone a good turn, to put a smile on their face. Do you want regular or large?’

‘Well, in that case, I’ll have a large one,’ I said.

The girl handed me a card with the word ‘Smile’ written on it in bold letters. I went over to sit at a table to read my newspaper and drink my coffee. It was the usual depressing news. There was a Tory leadership contest going on.  Candidates were vying with each other to get the most votes from their party. A tiny minority of voters were effectively choosing our next prime minister. That was how democracy worked these days!

I skimmed through the pages to see if I could find anything else of interest. There was loads about climate change. Indigenous people were putting up a fight to save the Amazon Rainforest. It was a losing battle. The Brazilian government were encouraging loggers to cut down trees so that farmers could use the land to plant sugarcane and ethanol, a biofuel used in transportation along with petrol. There’s a limit as to how much bad news I can take in one go. So, I turned to the back pages and got stuck into codeword. It was an easy one this time. I found the ‘e’s and the ‘ing’s quickly enough and had soon finished it. I picked up the card with ‘Smile’ written on it and turned it over. On the back it said ‘You’ve been tagged. Now you are on.’

It took me back to playing tag in the school playground.  Apparently, the idea was that you had to put a smile on a stranger’s face by performing an anonymous act of kindness. It was like one of those chain letters we used to get at school, when I invariably broke the chain. I entertained the notion of giving some money to a beggar. But we rarely saw beggars in our town, unlike in cities, where they were two a penny. Here the local council saw fit to move them on.  There was the Big Issue lady, but I hadn’t seen her in a while and, anyway, I knew her so she wouldn’t count. This was a conundrum. I went back to my newspaper and started on the crossword.

Periodically thoughts flashed through my mind about how to carry out a kindly act. I could rush out and tip the postman in the morning, but then again, I knew most of the ones who came now, so that wouldn’t work. I could send a donation to Oxfam, but their name was mud after the Haitian earthquake scandal. I certainly didn’t want to be supporting child abusers. Anyway, charity for me was more of a duty than an act of kindness. Alternatively, I could stop someone in the street, someone who looked down on their luck and offer to take them for a coffee and listen to their troubles. I quickly dismissed that thought. What was the point of dragging myself down as well?

Surely there must be a way of being kind anonymously. What if I visited a stranger in hospital? I’d run the risk of being carted off to the nearest police station or worse. Other weirder thoughts came to mind, such as going and sitting on a high bridge and saving someone from suicide.  I dismissed it as desperate and way beyond the call of duty. This ‘kindness to strangers’ thing was proving to be harder than it seemed.

As I was finishing my coffee, I remembered the face of the man as he’d opened the door for me, how he had smiled and how I had smiled back. That was it. Smiling was infectious. All I had to do was smile at people and they would smile back. Never mind if it looked inane. 

There was one clue left in the crossword. The word started with and ‘o’ and ended with an ‘e’ and it had seven letters. It took a few minutes before the penny dropped.

‘Damn,’ I shouted as I rushed out of the café. ‘I’ve gone over the parking limit.’

About the authos

Jenny Palmer has self-published two memoirs Nowhere Better than Home, 2012 and Pastures New, 2016 and a family history Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks, 2014. Keepsake and Other Stories was  published by Bridge House in 2018 and is available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle. Other stories are on the Cafelit website and in Best of Cafelit 3,5 and 6 and Citizens of Nowhere.  

Pendle Poems, her first collection of poetry, will be published in June 2019 and will be available from the Pendle Heritage Centre.

The Neighbor

by Dawn DeBraal

gingerbread latte, recycled  

Carrie peeked out her front window through a small opening she’d made by pulling the curtain back. She was searching for the where-a-bouts of her neighbor Mrs. Grady. Though Mrs. Grady was a lovely woman, she never seemed to leave Carrie and her daughter alone. Carrie’s hope was to make it to the mailbox and get her mail today, undetected. 

It started out innocently. Mrs. Grady asked for a cup of sugar or wanted to warn her about her dog Skippy crossing the road again, and how the wayward beagle could be hit by a car. It didn’t help that Mrs. Grady would be standing there with biscuits in her hand. Skippy couldn’t turn down a biscuit.

One time Mrs. Grady made pumpkin pies from the pumpkins Carrie had tossed out, setting them in garbage cans for pickup. When her daughter asked for a piece of the pumpkin pie Carrie threw the whole pie in the trash explaining that Mrs. Grady got the moldy pumpkins from the garbage, that the pie wasn’t safe. Sometime Mrs. Grady bought too much meat, pie, cheese, insert food item here, whatever and would bring it over in a rinsed-out jar because she was a recycling addict. Everything was used and reused one hundred times before it ended up being recycled again. She had lived through the Great Depression and her parents taught her to throw out nothing. 

Mrs. Grady brought over a blouse for Carrie once. She used to wear it when she was around Carrie’s age. It was an antique.

“Thank you,” Carrie told her, but now every time she saw Carrie, she’d ask if she’d worn it yet. There was no way Carrie could have worn that blouse out in public.

Carrie pulled the curtain out further. No Mrs. Grady in the front yard, looking left and looking right. She sighed a big sigh of relief. She was going to get her mail by trotting out to the box as fast as she could.  Slowly Carrie opened the door feeling the warm sunshine on her head and shoulders. Carrie quietly walked down the sidewalk with Skippy at her heels. She opened the mailbox, and there was the check she’d been expecting. Relieved, she quietly closed the box and made it halfway up the sidewalk when she heard the familiar.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Grady stood at her mailbox waving at Carrie. Carrie waved and quickly turned around heading for the house. “Carrie! Carrie dear, I have something to tell you.” Carrie stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes mouthing a cuss word before she turned around trying to get across the street to Mrs. Grady’s lawn before Mrs. Grady crossed the street into Carrie’s yard. If she didn’t catch Mrs. Grady in her own yard, a good half hour would be taken from Carries’ day trying to extricate herself from the well-meaning woman.  Carrie crossed the street with Skippy at her heels.

“Hi, Mrs. Grady, what did you want to talk to me about?” Carrie smiled politely.

“Well, you know Skippy was close to the road this morning. I had to shoo him back into the yard. I worry about something happening to him and how your daughter would take it.”

“I appreciate how you look after us, Mrs. Grady. Skippy should know better. But now that he knows you have biscuits, it’s hard for him to stay on our side of the street.” Carrie smiled again trying to be patient.

“I hadn’t thought about that, ” said Mrs. Grady. She clucked her tongue a few times. “I promise not to give him any more biscuits!”

“I would appreciate that.  If you will excuse me, I have a cake in the oven.” (She didn’t, but any port in the storm.)

“I love cake!” hinted Mrs. Grady.

“I’ll bring a piece by later!” offered Carrie and now she prayed she had a cake mix with frosting in her pantry.

             “Dear, did you get a chance to wear that blouse yet?” Carrie hated to lie but she needed to get going, so she lied.

             “I’m sorry Mrs. Grady, I have to go now. It’s that cake in the oven.”

              “Certainly dear!” Mrs. Grady let her go. Carrie and Skippy ran across the street. Carrie pulled open her pantry. Thank goodness! She found cake and frosting mix. She was glad Mrs. Grady didn’t ask what kind of cake she had. She pulled the eggs out of the refrigerator and started to mix the batter.  She was resentful when she punched in the oven temperature.  In less than an hour, the cake was cooling, waiting for frosting. When it was cool Carrie frosted the cake and then told her daughter she would be back in a minute; she needed to bring a piece of cake to Mrs. Grady.

Across the street, Carrie went with the cake on a paper plate No sense in giving Mrs. Grady an excuse to bring back the emptied dish. She knocked on the door waiting impatiently for Mrs. Grady to answer. There was no answer. Again, Carrie knocked on the door, perhaps she’d fallen asleep in the chair again. She looked through the picture window, seeing Mrs. Grady in the chair front the television which played in an overly loud fashion. Carrie went back to the front porch and opened the door.

             “Mrs. Grady? It’s me! Carrie! I have your cake!” There was something strangely different. Carrie went over and turned the television off, kneeling in front of Mrs. Grady. She touched her arm.

            “Mrs. Grady? Are you alright?” By mere touch, Carrie realized that Mrs. Grady was no longer in the land of the living. She grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1.  The EMTs checked Mrs. Grady’s vitals, she was gone. She was 93 years old. They called the coroner who interviewed Carrie.  Carrie was ashamed when she realized she didn’t know much about Mrs. Grady. They’d been neighbors for years. Carrie remembered she had a son, but also believed he died of a heart attack last year. He was a bachelor; he never married.

    “She called him Butch. I think his name might have been. Ummmm, Richard! Richard that’s it!” The Coroner called Goodhue’s Funeral Home. They came out and picked up Mrs. Grady.

“What about her cat?” asked Carrie. The coroner said he didn’t have anything to do with that. Carrie looked in the cupboards and found the cat food. She opened a can and put it on the plate in the kitchen. She told the policeman she would look after the cat until they found Mrs. Grady’s next of kin.

Carrie looked in on Chester every day. The cat was so lonely. She cleaned the litter box and took Mrs. Grady’s garbage out to the curb on pick-up day. She felt sorry for Chester, so she put him in the cat carrier and brought him to her house, came back over for the litter box and food. A week later Carrie got a call from Mrs. Grady’s lawyer. She let him know she was caring for Chester and would do so until someone claimed him. She had to admit that she was falling for the big orange tabby. Chester was clumsy and friendly. He snuggled up with her on the couch along with Skippy every evening and slept with her daughter at night. Sometime during the week of care, she decided she had fallen for Chester and the place he’d made in their family.  

Two weeks went by. Mrs. Grady’s attorney called her again. He’d found a distant relative, but they were not interested in taking Mrs. Grady’s cat. Carrie let the attorney know that she had bonded with Chester and she would love to have him live with her from now on. The attorney seemed very pleased with that decision.

Another week went by when the attorney asked if he could stop by Carrie’s home. He’d like the extra key to Mrs. Grady’s house. Carrie agreed to meet with him and relinquish the key.  It was given to her in case of an emergency many years ago. The attorney arranged the time for their appointment.  On Monday Mr. Kirkland, Mrs. Grady’s attorney, arrived at Carrie’s house at the agreed upon time. Carrie had the key laying out on the table to give to the attorney. He thanked her for caring for the house. The attorney accepted the key letting her know that Mrs. Grady’s great-nephew had inherited the house and would be selling it soon. He then asked to sit down and drew out additional paperwork, directing Carrie to sit down.

            “Mrs. Grady had no one. She barely knew her great-nephew but felt he should have her house. Chester was her only family, and you, as her neighbor.” Carrie cringed a little. She thought of all the times she grudgingly gave a little time to Mrs. Grady.  “Mrs. Grady put a stipulation in her will, that whoever accepted the care of Chester, would get all of her money.” Chester took that moment to jump into Carrie’s lap and lay down.

            “Money?” Carrie said uncertainly as she stroked the cat.

             “Yes, Mrs. Grady was quite a wealthy woman. She has left you over $750,000 dollars!” Carrie was in shock.

            “But her great-nephew,” She started to protest.

            “The will was very clear. Someone had to come forward out of the kindness of their heart to adopt Chester without the knowledge of the money. You did that. You had no knowledge of the will, you agreed to watch Chester until someone could be found to adopt him. The great nephew did not want Chester but wanted the house. So, you inherit her money.”

Carrie closed the door after Mr. Kirkland left. Still in shock. She didn’t feel worthy of accepting Mrs. Grady’s generosity. She did come to love the cat though.

A for-sale sign went up on Mrs. Grady’s house. It sold rather quickly. Carrie was outside with Skippy and Chester planting flowers when the moving van pulled up.  A short time later a group of motorcyclists pulled up, at least twenty of them. They started to carry the stuff out of the moving van and into the house.  A pickup truck pulled up with a keg of beer in the back. Someone turned up the radio. Carrie rolled her eyes sighing.  She dialed the number on the sign across the street.

            “Hello, Landford Realty? I’d like to put my house up for sale, you just sold one across the street. Tomorrow would be great.” Carrie waved at the new neighbors who lifted their red cups to her. What did she care?  She had $750,000 coming in any day now.  

Latte

by Melissa Wade

latte

The glib undercurrent of my sister Angela’s words cut. If only it were that simple: this is an enormous life changing event. Over ten years, mind body and heart had got used to being part of another: the comforting reassurance of his muscular presence. 

    I'm definitely not jealous of Angela, who whispers, 'so get over it and get on with your life' whilst throwing out the hymn as if we were singing to a crowd at the O2 rather than in a church practising for a concert. I might hate my life right now but I wouldn't swap it for Angela’s, whose husband does nothing to help round the house and whose idea of romantic is a bunch of wilted flowers reduced at the supermarket. Don't cry, I tell myself as I think of Tim who'd buy me lilies, my favourite, because I was suffering from a cold and feeling sorry  for myself. As soon as the last words of the hymn are left echoing I make a hasty exit. Today, Angela foregoes talking to the vicar and links her arm through mine, marching me to a cafe. I sink into the sofa as she orders a latte for me, iced coffee for herself and cinnamon pastries for both of us.

    'So he left you,' she says setting the tray of goodies down on the table. No plonking down for Angela, who smooths her skirt out before sitting. Thanks Angela. I'd completely forgotten Tim had walked out on me.  ‘After all, you did have an affair.'

    I take a bite of the light, flaky pastry.

    'And it was a stupid, stupid mistake, which I deeply regret.' I didn't even love the man. It was fun, nothing more. Tim worked away from home. I couldn’t talk to him about the army. He felt so distant and I needed something.

    'But that's no reason to stop taking care of yourself. Why don't you come swimming with me, you're gaining weight.'

    Says she, whose idea it was to get coffee and pastries.  I stare at her.

    'Okay, you have hydrophobia. Running then?'

    I don't even run for the train when I'm late for work three times in a row.

    'Or Pilates then?'

    'Pilates will make me lose weight?' I ask skeptically. 'I just want Tim back,' I whisper. I don't want Angela to see me cry or this tough love approach.

    'Well he's not coming back, sweetie, and you need to move on. It's not even as if you were married.

    Unbelievable.

About the author

https://writinginyorkshireblog.wordpress.com/

 

 

At the Clinic

by James Bates

ice tea with a hint of mint

The nervous looking man stood up, sat down, then went outside, sucked down a smoke, came back in and began pacing. From his chair on the other side of the clinic Larry watched, all the while wondering , what the hell's the matter with that guy?

            When the vet's assistant came out from the back, Larry stood to greet her. "Here you go, Mr. Sanderson," she said, handing over Cicely. "Your kitty's doing just fine. It was only a little hairball."

            "That's a relief." Larry smiled gratefully, nestling his little four month old calico to his chest as she began purring loudly. He gestured toward the guy, now sitting, jiggling his legs and twisting a magazine to death. "What's up him? Is he okay?"

            "Oh, yeah, he's fine. Just a little upset. It's half price procedure day today at the clinic. His dog Pete is getting neutered."

            Ouch, Larry thought to himself, and felt a sudden, sharp, sympathy pain, remembering a few years ago when he fulfilled his promise to Nancy a week after their second child was born and had the old tubes tied. Not the most pleasant experience he'd ever had.

            At the time his wife had not been one bit sympathetic to his plight. He clearly remembered Nancy looking askance at him saying, "Suck it up, Larry," as she helped him hobble to their car."Try giving birth sometime. Twice."

            Which was certainly a true statement, and at the time he'd made a wise marital decision not to pursue the matter any further. In fact, he'd put it all out of his mind. Until now.

            He cradled Cicely, petting her while casting a consoling eye toward the dog's owner who was holding the now destroyed magazine limply in his hand, staring into space, hands twitching, dealing with his own inner demons. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the clinic a dog barked and the poor guy grimaced and jumped in his chair. Then he grabbed for a new magazine to mangle.

            Before the memory of his own procedure became too vivid for comfort Larry figured he'd better leave. He paid for Cicely, then thanked the assistant.

            "Okay, good-bye," he said.

            She patted Cicely on the head and said, "Right. See you next month. Okay?"

            Larry stopped short. "Next month?"

            "Yes. She's due back then. It's easier when the kitty is younger."

             Larry blanched. That's right. Her procedure. He'd conveniently forgotten. "Oh. Sure," he said, voice cracking, perspiration breaking out on his brow. "Right. I'll see you then."

            "Be sure to come, okay?" she said, watching a bead of sweat trickle down Larry's forehead."Call for an appointment," she added.

            "Yeah, I will," he managed to stammer. Then he turned, petting Cicely nervously before wiping his brow. He couldn't get out of there fast enough.

            As he made his way to the car, Nancy's words come back to him, "Suck it up Larry." He was trying his best, he really was, but he just couldn't shake the vivid memory of "Being under the knife" as he always referred his operation.

             He situated Cicely in her car carrier in the passenger seat and got in behind the wheel, happy to finally be leaving the clinic behind. Then he remembered that it was only a month before he'd have to return. Not good. His hands started shaking at the thought.

            Next to him, Cicely started her motor going, purring up a gentle storm, usually a calming influence. But not today. Man, Larry thought to himself, it was becoming obvious he was not very good at this kind of thing, handling these procedures and operations and what not. Maybe he should ask Nancy if she would take Cicely to the clinic for him next month. Then he stopped himself. No. Bad idea. He knew exactly what she'd say. "Don't be a such a baby, Larry. Suck it up for god's sake."

            Larry sighed and scratched Cicely under her chin through the mesh on the carrier's door. "Don't worry, girl. It'll be just fine. Trust me." In answer, she looked up at him with big blue eyes, her motor going full tilt, purring up a storm. Bring it on, she seemed to be saying to him, blinking calmly and casually licking a paw. Just bring it on. She kept looking at him, like she was ready for anything; ready to go anytime, whether he was or not.

            He patted her head before putting the car in gear. "Good girl," he told Cicely as they left the parking lot. It was up to him to take her back for her procedure. Both Cicely and Nancy were depending on him. He had a month. Plenty of time to get his act together. Plenty of time to figure out how to suck it up. He hoped. Either that or they'd better have some magazines on hand for him to mangle. Make that a lot of magazines.

About the author

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet, Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review, Ariel Chart and Potato Soup Journal. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

            

The Rain

by Mitzi Danielsonkaslik 

sparkling water

I like it when the rain falls,

It fills the unfeeling silence,

With a soft ethereal sound,

Like a nightingale in the morning,

A winters morning,

When the sun is out of sight,

And the air holds a chill,

A crisp chill like ice cream,

On a hot summer evening,

When the sun is low in the sky,

And the rainbows have gone,

But the rain begins to fall,

I like it when the rain falls,

It fills the silence with hope.

No Fun in Fun

by Glenn Bresciani

vanilla coke

     

Linda and I sit together in the lunch room. Our cubicles are opposite to each other so we may as well sit on opposite sides of the same table.

      Tony, our team leader, swaggers between the tables, his winner’s grin switched onto a high beam. He speaks to each member of his team. I can’t hear what’s being said but I’m guessing, by the vigorous shake of my co-worker’s head, Tony must be asking that dreaded question again. Why can’t Tony go be a team leader somewhere else?

      “Well, keep thinking fun,” I hear Tony say to a member of his team. “We need fresh ideas for Fun Day.” Tony moves onto the next table.

      When will Tony ever learn: Fun Day is no fun. If burnt toast was an office job, it would be data entry. Tony can spread all the fun he wants over data entry, spread it on thick, sprinkle it with Rainbow sprinkles, and he will never make our job taste delicious.

      I know, I know. A happy worker is a productive worker. How can I ever forget it? The quote is written on the wall above the photocopier in bold Parisienne Font.

      Yet, still we’re being oppressed by Fun Day. Under Tony’s dictatorship, we have only two options: obey Fun Day or lose our jobs.

      If I had the courage to lead an uprising against Fun Day, I would as it has never made us happy or productive as the propaganda would have you believe. All Fun Day will ever be is just more hours we have to dedicate to our job outside of work hours. Where’s the fun in that?

      Why haven’t we been liberated? Why won’t anyone in the western world take pity on us and invade our office with missiles and warplanes, to rid us of the tyranny of Tony, the crackpot despot, and his weapons of mass fun.

      Linda removes the lid from her Tupperware container filled with something leafy green.

      “I’ve got salad too,” I say, reaching into my handbag for my lunch.

      The Monster High lunch box I just placed on the table has disrupted my thoughts.

      Right now, my daughter will also be on her lunch break at school, wondering what to do with a tub of pre-made Greek salad. (only $4.95 at Seven/Eleven.)

      Linda stops breathing, her wide-eyed stare at the lunch box interrupted by her sideways glance at Tony, who is now making himself a coffee.

      “Put it away.”

      “But it’s all I have.”

      Opening the lunch box, I glance over at Tony. He’s still at the kitchen bench, stirring his coffee with a teaspoon. Surely I could grab my daughter’s lunch and stash the Monster High lunch box back into my handbag without Tony noticing.

      “Stacey. Put it away now.”

      “No, I’m really hungry.” 

      “I’m looking at what’s in that lunch box, and all I see is fun. What do you think Tony will see when he looks at it?”

      Shit! Linda is right. I have to make this edible fun disappear.

      “Ooh, that looks like fun,” says Tony, hurrying over to the table I’m sitting at.   

      Does fun have a smell? How else would have Tony distinguished the lunch box from all the lunch time commotion.   

      “It’s just my daughter’s school lunch.” I try to make it sound as boring as it is. “I packed it into my handbag by mistake.”

      Tony isn’t even listening to me. He is mesmerized by what’s going on inside the lunch box.

      “Did you use a star-shaped loaf of bread?”

      Maybe Tony really did have a brain injury when he was a baby. Why else would he ask me such an obvious question? I check the right side of Tony’s head- just above the ear –to see if I can see the scar where a fork was lodged into his brain.

      “Um . . . yes-no,” I can’t concentrate on Tony’s absurd question, not while Linda’s frown is burning into me.

      “The sandwich,” Tony explains. “It’s shaped like a star. Was the whole loaf of bread star-shaped?”

      I look into my daughter’s lunchbox at the Nutella sandwich I have cut into the shape of a starfish. “My daughter refuses to eat her crust, so I cut it off the bread.”

      “Wow,” Tony gasps, as a joyful daze drifts through him. “I wish my mom did that for me when I was a boy.”

      Tony claps his hands, as loud as he can. “Attention! Can I please have your attention?”

He already has everyone’s attention, plus- judging by the silence -he has everyone concerned as well.

      “Fun Day is back. We have a new theme: Kid’s meal Fun Day. The more childish the lunch you bring to work, the more fun we will have.”

      “What do you mean by childish?” asks Judy, sitting at a table near the fridge.

      “Oh, you know. Something wacky. Something bright-colored. Lots of fun. Whatever makes a child laugh, I want to bring that into the office so we can all have a laugh.”

      No one is laughing. No one is even smiling. I can sense the rising hostility in the room, why can’t Tony?

      The doctors must’ve removed the part of the brain that regulates empathy when they removed the fork from baby Tony’s head. How does a fork get lodged into a baby’s brain in the first place? It must’ve been a high chair incident, that’s the only explanation.

      “So you want something whimsical, like Willy Wonka,” asks Adam.

      Tony blinks rapidly; his grin shrinks down to the tightness of pursed lips. “Willy Wonka? I don’t know who that is.”

      “He’s talking about fairy floss, gummy bears and toffee apples,” says Linda, scowling at Tony, “you know, party food, as in a kid’s birthday party.”

      Linda has earned herself a finger snap from Tony. “You’re going to nail this Fun Day, Linda.”

      Tony places his hands on my shoulders. Of course, I flinch.  “Kid’s meal Fun Day is Stacey’s idea. What an impressive idea it is too. I’m impressed because with food there are more creative options, more possibilities. We will get even more Fun Days out of Stacey ideas than we ever did out of Crazy Hat Fun Day or Hawaiian Shirt Fun Day.”

      Everyone is looking at me, their hatred towards me synchronized.

      Yeah, that’s awesome Tony. Now all my co-workers despise me. I flee for the safety of my cubicle, but what I should have done was hide myself in the women’s toilets. Being the first one to return to my computer after lunch, gives my co-workers an opportunity to pass my cubicle on the way to their own cubicles, so they can share with me their feelings for my proposal for Fun Day.

      “Thanks a lot, Stacey. I can’t go play indoor soccer after work because now I’ve got to go shopping for a kid’s meal.”

      “I was meant to be going to the gym after work. I can’t do that now, can I, Stacey?”

      “Don’t be bothered meeting us Friday night after work for drinks, Stacey. You’re not welcome.”

      Why couldn’t our office have been built on top of an oil well? Coalition forces would have invaded by now if we had oil under our feet. Tony would be captured and charged for crimes against humanity. We would all be celebrating our freedom with dancing and laughter between our rows of cubicles.  

      I’ve had enough. I’m done waiting to be liberated. I will liberate us from Fun Day. I will invade this office with so much fun; it will blast Fun Day off the surface of the Earth and into the sun.

Friday is Fun Day, bloody Fun Day. Tony is convinced that Fun Day is as good as Sunday. To everyone in his team, Fun Day feels like another Monday.

      A table from the lunch room had been moved into the office to display our contributions to Fun Day. Tony stands beside the table, hands on his hips, shaking his head at the bowls already on the table.

      Michelle places her Fun Day contribution on the table, glares at me as if I’m to blame.

      “Thank you, Michelle,” Tony says, frowning on a Fun Day, “for, yet another bowl of M&Ms.”

      The bowls of M&Ms keep on coming as my co-workers offer something fun to Fun Day. Each bowl filled with hundreds of colored candy more colorful than an autopsy on a rainbow.

      Kid’s meal Fun Day was supposed to be about infinite creative options and unlimited fun. So how funny is it, that in defiance of Fun Day, everyone in Tony’s team came to the same logical conclusion. Except for Linda, she is innovation incarnate as she slams a bowl onto the table, tearing open a packet of Skittles with her teeth.

      “Is this fun enough for your Tony?” Linda says, dumping the entire packet of Skittles into the bowl. Next to the other bowls, the Skittles are identical to the M&Ms. Yeah, Tony’s looking disappointed. His Fun Day is producing about as much fun as a broken light bulb produces light.

      I check on the time displayed on my iPhone’s screen. It is 9:15am. Our liberation was to begin at 9:10am. The invasion is running late and I’m starting to worry.

      A burst of color invades the office. Every color of the rainbow, the color of war declared on Tony’s Fun Day. The sight of the invaders gives me the giggles. I can’t help it; the joy I’m feeling is tickling me.

      Nineteen helium balloons float above a Balloon Lagoon employee, who is named Simon according to his Name Badge. He spins around, gawking at his surroundings from every angle. 

      “Is this thirty-nine Hunter Street?” Simon asks me as I approach him.

      I look down at his Vans slip on shoes, “um . . . I ordered the balloons.”

      Simon hands over the nineteen balloon strings to me. “I’d never expect a place like this to have a kid’s birthday party. I thought I had the wrong address.”

      “Could you say that again, but louder please?”

      “Say what?”

      “What you just said about the kids.”

      “There are kids here? Where? I don’t see ‘em.”

      Losing patients, I take the balloons off Simon who leaves the office more confused than when he arrived.

      All my co-workers, including Tony- especially Tony -gape at my invasion force in shock and awe. The balloons, they’re so intense, their fun so thunderous, it’s like watching surgical missile strikes exploding around Baghdad, live on CNN.

      Over the table with the bowls of colored candy, I release the strings. The balloons rise to the ceiling, each one shaped like a unicorn, a panda bear, a pink bunny, a laughing dolphin and so much more. The helium filled animals glide over us, B-2 stealth bombers dropping bombs on Tony’s Fun Day.

      “That’s Fun Day, Tony,” I say, pointing at a floating Rex from Toy Story, “right there in those childish balloons. Can you see how childish it is? Do we look like children to you?”

      Tony stares at one balloon, than another- he can’t stop staring. Usually I wouldn’t know this as I would be looking at Tony’s shoes when I speak. But right now, the way I’m feeling, I’m surprised my glowering at Tony’s face hasn’t singed his eye brows.

      “Childish shit like this doesn’t amuse us. It doesn’t even make us happy. It will never boost our productivity. Or get you your end of year bonus- Yeah, we all know about that, Tony.”

      Timid and tiny, that’s me. My co-workers have never seen me this angry. I’ve never seen myself this angry.

      “Data entry is dull, repetitive, and it probably kills brain-cells. No amount of fun is going to change that. Not ever! All your Fun Day does, Tony, is more work for us outside of work hours. So for fuck sake, Tony! Enough with the Fun Day bullshit. Stop treating us like children!”

      All my co-workers wait for a reaction from Tony, for him to raise his voice, raise his fists, raise his eyebrows- anything.

      Tony won’t give them a reaction to my outburst as he’s still reacting to the helium balloons. The more he gazes at them, the more they adjust the brightness level of his smile.

      “I never knew party balloons came in the shape of animals.”

      Neither did I until I looked at the online catalogue- wait! What’s happening? Tony is supposed to be embarrassed, he’s supposed to be feeling stupid. That was the whole point of this helium balloon invasion.

      “They’re wonderful. Thank you, Stacey. You’re a Fun Day expert.”

      My body temperature spikes. My skin prickles. Oh shit! I can’t breathe. All of my co-workers hate me at once. Thank God! My brain’s survival instincts have kicked in. Flight mode is getting me out of here, getting me to safety.

      Everyone is glaring at me, even those who are behind me, I can feel it. If hatred was a solarium tanning bed, my body would be covered in blisters.

      What I wanted was a liberator. What I needed was an invasion. But all I got was the supercarrier USS Ronald Reagan docking in the capital city of Tony’s tyranny, so all the personnel could take shore leave and have fun.

Next morning, I awake in bed with a spiked headache lodged into the front lobe of my brain.

Stress, it has to be. After the balloons arrived, what was supposed to be a brighter day took a sharp right turn into a stressful day.

      All day, my co-workers glanced at me with contempt during their many whispered conversations. They ignored me every time I offered small talk.

      I’m glad everyone removed themselves from the lunchroom when I sat at a table, as it allowed me some alone time to cry. Someone had even dumped all the M&Ms into my handbag; or maybe everyone wanted revenge, launching a sneak attack against my handbag with a handful of candy.

      A fluffy unicorn is tossed next to my pillow, followed by my daughter climbing onto my bed.

      “Mommy, why are you still sleeping in bed?”

      “Sweetie, Mommy’s sick. Can you pass me my iPhone, pretty please? I have to call work.”

      Jumping off the bed, my daughter scurries into the walk-in-wardrobe, thrusts her hand into my handbag.

      “Mommy! There’s Skittles in your bag.”

      “They’re not Skittles sweetie, they’re M&Ms. Can you, please, just get me my iPhone.”

      My daughter slips my iPhone into my hand. I select Tony’s work number.

      While I’m waiting for the call to connect, my daughter shoves a handful of M&Ms into her mouth.

      “Hello. Safety Net insurance, Linda speaking.”

      “Linda?”

      “. . . is that you, Stacey?”

      “Why are you using Tony’s phone?”

      “Are you calling in sick? No Stacey, you can’t be sick, not today. Everyone wants to thank you.”

      “Everyone stuffed candy into my handbag yesterday. Why would anyone want to thank me?”

      “Look, I know you were being bullied by everyone yesterday. I did it, too. And I’m sorry. We didn’t know the helium balloons were a part of your plan.”

      That plan failed. So what’s Linda talking about? Unless . . .  

      “Tony’s gone?” These two words were all my brain could slip past my confusion.

      “Yes,” says Linda. “He resigned. He phoned last night, said something about a career move into selling helium balloons.”

      I could never plan that outcome, even if I wanted to.

      “C’mon, Stacey, don’t call in sick. You’ve made a difference. You got rid of Tony. We all want you to celebrate with us after work.”

      “Okay, Linda, see you soon." 

       I hug my daughter. Joy needs to spread and I’m feeling joyous. The distant sound of a bronze monument to a dictator being toppled by newly liberated civilians is the sweetest sound I’ll ever hear.

      It’s over. It’s done. No more fun. 

About the author

Glenn works as a support worker in community aged care. Fantasy and Sci-Fi are his favourite genres that he enjoys reading and wants to write about. Yet, whenever Glenn write a story, he always ends up writing ‘Slice-of-Life’ fiction.

Glenn has a Facebook author page. 

https://www.facebook.com/glennbresciani

Snake Girl

by Sarah Leavesley

snakebite 

Maddie kept snakes in her wardrobe. While asps rustled through her skirts, the red rat made blouse sleeves ripple. At night, stilettos turned to cobras. When Maddie sang and danced, reptile eyes became transfixed; bodies mirrored her hypnotic sway. She slept with an eastern coral coiled round her neck like an ancient amulet, stroked the scaled skin as a talisman against her dark past.

She let one friend meet them, Donna, borrowing a sequinned number for her work’s gala ball.

“What the hell!” Donna exclaimed. Revulsion shuddered across her face. The dress slithered to the floor.

“They’re my boyfriend’s,” Maddie tried to reassure her. “I only have them for the weekend.”

“Ugh!”

“Do you want a jacket too?” Maddie offered with faux nonchalance from behind her designer sunglasses as Donna backed emptied-handed out the door.

Still, Maddie couldn’t shake her fascination. She brought home more and more until her bedroom was full of reptile hissing.

Her last date was the only one to guess, seconds before he discovered her other secret. As Greg tried to unwind Maddie’s headscarf and remove her shades to kiss her, Maddie’s dreadlocks unwound, a forked tongue flicked and he glimpsed her terrible power…then his eyes turned to marble.

Of course she collected snakes, Maddie confided later to the black mamba and her tear-stained diary. What else was a Gorgon girl to do for company when dead lovers kept littering her home with cold stone?

#

Three weeks later, Donna still hasn’t been back to see Maddie, and no longer feels in the mood for a gala ball. Instead, she keeps replaying different versions of her fright – and the disappointment on her friend’s face. She reinvents Maddie as the ‘Snake Girl’ while she listens to her boyfriend, Mark, jabber to his mates in a bar. Actually, ‘listens’ isn’t quite the right word. Donna isn’t listening to them in the way she does ‘When I Was Your Man’ or the latest episode of ‘Mr Robot’. She half-registers Mark and his friends’ slurred banter as rhythms of noise on a general passing gist – again – about the girlfriend-less guy at work – again – who won’t come drinking with them – at all. When a slight pause comes…

.           “I might know someone,” she offers quietly.
            Mark squeezes her hand briefly, then carries on talking.      

“He keeps falling for these girls. Classy ones. Way out of John’s league.”
            “Yeah.” Mark’s friend Phil sloshes his beer across the table, its shallow flow petering out just before it reaches the edge.

“Instead of trying Zoosk, he spends the evenings in his apartment, reading comics and playing computer games. Pathetic or what!”

Mark snorts with disdain, but Donna’s heart tightens in empathy. If she could bear to be alone, sure as hell she wouldn’t be here.

Strangeness is something that Maddie and John have in common, Donna thinks. If not exactly similar, snakes and games share a certain weirdness, and Maddie could definitely be the Cobra Queen from some Marvel series…different but interesting. And slinkily glam; Donna remembers the sequin dress, as well as her shock at Maddie’s secret pets. But most snakes aren’t that dangerous, Donna’s learned since from Wikipedia. Unlike Mark. There’s a macho bite to nearly everything he does, and the boredom of listening to his conversations with his mates is near killing her. She owes Maddie an apology.

“Another one, Mark?”  His stockiest friend stands up.

Donna opens her mouth to mention Maddie again, then closes it quickly.

She glances up at her boyfriend’s face. He isn’t even looking at her, though his hand is snaking up her leg. It crosses her mind that ‘pathetic John’ might actually be out partying right now, just at a different spot to Mark and his friends. What Donna wouldn’t give to be elsewhere, even reading a graphic novel or chatting about boas; the California Red-Sided Garter Snake she found on Pinterest is really rather beautiful.

Elsewhere. That’s it, enough already! Tomorrow, she’ll give Maddie a call and suggest a girls’ night out, somewhere on the other side of the city, safe from slithering shadows. Meanwhile…pulling herself up tall, Donna settles for a gaze that will stop Mark dead in his tracks. 

About the author

Sarah Leavesley is a poet, fiction writer and journalist, who loves people-watching and daydreaming. Flash publications include pieces in Ellipsis, Jellyfish Review, The Fiction Pool, Fictive Dream, Spelk and Litro Online. She’s also author of two companion pocket novellas: Kaleidoscope and Always Another Twist (Mantle Lane Press).